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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777853">My Fair Konrad</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddyWritesFic/pseuds/BuddyWritesFic'>BuddyWritesFic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Warhammer 40.000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:35:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddyWritesFic/pseuds/BuddyWritesFic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Emperor is ready to use Konrad as a general. Fulgrim thinks someone should teach him to wash his hair and eat with a fork first.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Konrad Curze/Fulgrim (WH40K)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re in the Imperial Palace. You meet a some nobles, off-duty council staff, a group of mixed sexes.” Fulgrim sat at a table in an elegant room on <i>The Pride of the Emperor</i>. Night Haunter sat before him, hair washed and teeth brushed as Fulgrim had insisted, posture still hunched and wary. “The most prominent among them is… let’s say it’s Lord-Overseer Amberlee. It’s ten in the morning, local time. What do you say?”</p><p>“Good… day?” Night Haunter tried.</p><p>“Good morning,” Fulgrim offered in gentle correction. “‘Good day’ is more a valediction than a salutation. And don’t forget – ?”</p><p>“Their honorifics. Good day, my lords. I mean, Good morning, my lords. Does it really matter?” His shoulders rose higher. He was angry to be judged on something he’d had no cause to care about before. “It seems arbitrary.”</p><p>Fulgrim tilted his head and weighed the objection in his mind. “It <i>is</i> arbitrary,” he conceded eventually, “but it does matter.”</p><p>“Why? On my world, I do not play the nobility’s farcical games. They obey me because they know they must. Why does our father indulge his Terran nobles like this? He is stronger than I am. He has compelled me to his will. He can compel anyone to his will.” Bitterness rose in his voice.</p><p>“He certainly can,” Fulgrim agreed. “And this is how he does it.”</p><p>“With salutations and honorifics?”</p><p>“Salutations and honorifics are the first part. The simplest part. You must understand, dear, social interaction is a weapon of unlimited power. When Father wields it, he brings entire sectors to heel. You will, too. But before you can kill with a knife, you must know how to hold it.” He reached out a hand, slowly, and touched Night Haunter’s hair. “I’m showing you how to hold the knife.”</p><p>Night Haunter froze in place. He did not understand the gesture. Was it a threat? A challenge? But Fulgrim didn’t grab his hair or pull it. He just took a lock between his fingers and tucked it into place behind his ear, moving it it out from in front of his eyes.</p><p>He looked Fulgrim in the face, only briefly. More than a second of eye contact was distressing for the feral warlord. But in that second, he didn’t see malice. He saw warmth and care, and a kind of excitement. Fulgrim had a secret he wanted to share with him. A game he wanted to play, together.</p><p>Together.</p><p>“I do not understand entirely,” he said. “But if you wish to teach me, I will learn.”</p><p>The starlight of Fulgrim’s smile shone brighter. “I’m very glad. Now,” he said, returning to the drills, “Their leader returns your greeting. ‘Good morning, Lord Konrad. I hope today finds you in good health?’”</p><p>“Y… Yes, Lord-Overseer Amberlee, thank you,” Night Haunter tried. “How are you?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Night Haunter lunged, and Fulgrim stepped aside. He struck, and Fulgrim twirled. He bit, and <i>Fireblade</i> blocked his teeth. He had never met someone so difficult to hit.</p><p>“Blood,” Fulgrim said.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“On your cheek, dear.” He touched his own cheek to show him where it was.</p><p>Night Haunter touched his cheek, and his fingers were red when they came away. Fulgrim had drawn first blood. He had won. “How do you do that?” he demanded.</p><p>“Oh… it’s a little complicated.” Fulgrim wiped the little drop of blood off of <i>Fireblade</i> and licked his fingers clean.</p><p>“Show me!”</p><p>“I’m not sure that it’s really your thing...”</p><p>“It is my thing!” Night Haunter had been denied a victory, denied even the satisfaction of landing a solid blow. The prospect of another denial infuriated him.</p><p>Fulgrim started cleaning his already immaculate sword with a cloth.</p><p>“Fulgrim! It is my thing! Effective combat is my thing! Did someone tell you it’s not? Show me how to do it!”</p><p>“Well…” Fulgrim drew out the word, considering his options. “All right. When you put it that way, I can’t refuse you.”</p><p>And that’s how Fulgrim tricked Night Haunter into taking dance lessons.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Communicating with Konrad was a puzzle. Much of what Fulgrim wished to express Konrad had no framework to understand, and much he dismissed as irrelevant or false. Fulgrim turned a stylus in his hand as he considered the challenge. “How to explain..?” he said thoughtfully. “All right, let’s try this: why do you kill criminals?”</p><p>“I have to,” Night Haunter said. They’d been over this. “If I don’t, they keep committing crimes.”</p><p>“Yes, but why do you want them to stop?”</p><p>“Crime is <i>loud</i>,” he said with vehemence. “It’s a horrible, ugly noise. I can’t stand it. It grates on my senses to the point of distraction. I need to make it stop.”</p><p>Fulgrim nodded. He could work with that. “If someone hurt you, that would grate on my senses. It would be horrible and ugly to me. I would need to make them stop.”</p><p>Night Haunter frowned. He had thought himself alone in his compulsions. He had never met another person who felt aggrieved by crimes committed against others, and he’d <i>certainly</i> never met someone who felt aggrieved by crimes committed against him. “Why?”</p><p>“I love you,” Fulgrim said. “It hurts me to see you hurt. It would please me to see you happy.” He took Konrad’s whip-tense body in his arms and kissed his troubled head. “Precious brother.”</p><p>Night Haunter was still undecided in his opinion of Fulgrim’s habit of touching people with his hands and mouth. It seemed odd. But he had been with the other Primarch for several weeks now, and it no longer startled him. Fulgrim’s robe was soft against his cheek. The perfume in his hair was sweet. The beating of his hearts was deep and slow, and he felt strange as he listened to it, as though his own hearts were slowing down to match. He closed his eyes. He did not understand Fulgrim’s offer of love, but it did not feel criminal.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Folk Song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Night Haunter was with Fulgrim in one of the large, empty rooms on the <i>Pride of the Emperor</i> that had been re-purposed as a rehearsal space. He was doing his best to follow along as his brother drilled him in the footwork that made him such an annoying opponent in a duel. Rock step, triple-step, step, step, triple-step. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. It was a lot to keep track of. The song had been playing for a while before Konrad realized he couldn’t make out the words.</p><p>“What is he singing?” he asked.</p><p>“Do you like it? It’s an old Chemosian song. One of the oldest, we believe. The lyrics… well, it doesn’t scan as well in translation, but it would be something like:</p><p>‘I don’t sleep at night<br/>These days, I don’t sleep at night<br/>These days, I don’t sleep at night<br/>The glow from my lungs makes me wake up’</p><p>‘Huff fumes with me<br/>Pretty girl, huff fumes with me<br/>Pretty girl, huff fumes with me<br/>The buzz from the fumes makes us forget.’”</p><p>“That’s awful!” Konrad said.</p><p>“It’s a product of its time.”</p><p>“You really let people sing that?” He would never permit songs like that on Nostramo. He didn’t want his people to get ideas.</p><p>“Of course,” Fulgrim said. “We’re proud of our folk songs. They’re gifts from our ancestors.” He could see that Konrad didn’t understand, so he continued. “The people who wrote this song were very poor and tired. They were in a great deal of pain. They couldn’t sing loudly or quickly, because they burned all the calories they had working in the vapor mines. But they still sang, softly and slowly. They still made songs to give to their children. That’s inspiring, isn’t it?”</p><p>Konrad shook his head. “I don’t want to dance to it. It’s seditious.”</p><p>“Well, it may be an acquired taste.” Fulgrim was willing to indulge his charge’s whims. His goal was to introduce him to the breadth of art and culture available in the galaxy, not to turn him into a Chemosian folk dancer. “What kind of song would be better?”</p><p>That drew Konrad up short. He had never been asked for an opinion on music before. He wasn’t sure what his options were. “Are there songs about killing criminals?” he asked.</p><p>Fulgrim beamed at him. “There are thousands.” He gestured for his brother to join him by the control panel. “Come, I’ll show you how to search for them.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Bad Cop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m not a bad cop,” Night Haunter said. “I kill bad cops. I flay the skin from their bodies and nail it to the walls as a warning to the others. There are no bad cops left on Nostramo, because of me. Why would you say that?”</p><p>“I apologize, I didn’t say what I meant clearly.” It was hard not to smile at his brother’s misapprehension, but Fulgrim was accustomed to hard tasks. “Let me try again?”</p><p>He nodded, wary of insult.</p><p>“Good Cop/Bad Cop is a game for two players and their mark. The Bad Cop isn’t bad because he’s corrupt or ineffective. He’s just frightening. He threatens the mark.”</p><p>“You want me to be Frightening Cop?”</p><p>“Exactly. And I’ll be Comforting Cop.”</p><p>“How do you play?”</p><p>“Comforting Cop goes first. I approach our mark, a planetary government, and offer diplomatic relations. Medical and technological advances, interstellar travel, the beauty and culture of the Imperium. When they show hesitance, I tell them their compliance is an urgent matter, because my brother is impatient, and his methods are harsher than mine. If they comply, we win, and we find another mark. If they hesitate further, it’s your turn.”</p><p>“What do I do on my turn?”</p><p>“Whatever you like. Your instincts in this area are irreproachable.”</p><p>“‘Whatever I like’ will mean slaughtering them like vermin.” Night Haunter was checking for a trap. Traps were a specialty of his new ‘family.’ They gave him problems where the only solution was to slaughter everyone like vermin, and then they scolded him for solving the problem. He didn’t want to play a new game if it was just a trap.</p><p>Fulgrim laughed. “Well, of course it will, dear. That’s why you’re perfect.”</p><p>Night Haunter scowled. “You mock me.”</p><p>“No, not at all. Look, you’ll destroy them in your customary, attention-grabbing fashion, and what will the onlooking galaxy learn? ‘When Fulgrim comes to talk to you, don’t waste his time, or you’ll have to deal with Night Haunter.’”</p><p>He considered. “So why send you first, if I’m going to kill them anyway?”</p><p>“Well, not every planet will resist us. And the more demonstrations you perform, the more will come peacefully.”</p><p>Night Haunter nodded. That part made sense.</p><p>“I want you to follow your own wishes in this. Do exactly <i>what</i> you want, and <i>how</i>. Only let me tell you <i>when</i>, <i>where</i>, and <i>to whom</i>.” His voice softened. “I know Father has been harsh with you. I think his harshness might be tempered if you allow me to pick your targets on occasion. I am generally considered a good judge of what might please him.”</p><p>It took him a moment to process the case, to consider the possible implications of acceptance. It didn’t <i>sound</i> like a trap. “Yes,” he said eventually. “I will play this game with you.”</p><p>The light of Fulgrim’s joy was dazzling. He took Night Haunter by the hand and kissed his head. “Wonderful,” he said. “Our first target is called Algervan. You’ll hate it.”</p><p>“Yes.” He was pleased that the first thing Fulgrim expected from him was something he could do. “I hate it already.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Dogs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Are there dogs on Nostramo?”</p><p>“Some.” He looked at Fulgrim’s face. That expression meant that Fulgrim wanted him to talk more, so he went on. “There used to be more. People bred big dogs with huge, crushing jaws. They made them fight for sport. They beat and starved them and left them in the street. They were awful. They bit everyone. When they died, they tasted awful, too. Now it’s better. People can have one, nice dog, with small jaws. They can’t beat or starve it, and they have to keep it quiet at night. Places that store food can have a small, mean dog to eat the rats, but it has to be very small, and they can’t let it bite people.”</p><p>“That does sound like an improvement,” Fulgrim agreed. “Do you know how they train the dogs, now that they’re forbidden to beat them?”</p><p>Night Haunter shook his head. “I don’t care how they do it. I just kill them if they don’t.”</p><p>“You might find the process interesting. It’s easier than it looks.”</p><p>“Oh?” He still didn’t especially care, but this was how the game worked. He said something, Fulgrim said something, and he said ‘oh.’</p><p>“Dogs want to please their masters. It’s in their nature. Man’s first foray into genetic engineering. If you care for a dog, if you give it food and attention, it bonds with you. It comes to see you as a sort of inherently rewarding being. It knows that good things happen when you’re around. Then all you need to do is make your wishes clear, and the dog will do anything you ask.”</p><p>“I didn’t know that.” He still didn’t care. He wondered if he should tell Fulgrim that, or if his brother already knew and was saying it anyway.</p><p>“Astartes work on the same principle.”</p><p>Now he could see why the dogs were relevant, but Fulgrim was wrong, and that made him angry. “Not my Astartes. All they do is fight each other and commit crimes unless they think I’m going to kill them.”</p><p>“You give yourself too little credit. I promise, you’re the center of their world. You don’t believe me?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Fulgrim smiled. “Why don’t we try it, then, and see?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Giving Orders</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lord Commander Shang stood at attention before the two Primarchs. He had feared things as a child in the ancient oubliettes of Terra, and those things seemed to take shape in Night Haunter, a looming, malevolent shadow with cruel metal claws. Fulgrim cut a less menacing figure, but the glow of his soul hurt Shang’s eyes, and he wished he were wearing his helmet so he could turn down the brightness on the visor.</p><p>“Go on,” Fulgrim said to Night Haunter. “Tell him what you want.”</p><p>The Dark King’s face rippled with hatred, and Shang braced himself for a blow.</p><p>“I want you to stay out of my room!” he shouted. “Stop coming in there. I don’t need your help getting dressed. Power armor is stupid. I hate it. But when I have to wear it, I’ll fucking put it on myself. Stay out of my office, too.”</p><p>He continued: “And stay in your room at night. Tell everyone to stay in their room at night if they aren’t on duty. I can’t sleep thinking about all the bullshit crimes you commit when you’re not in your rooms. I hate it!”</p><p>Shang stood stunned. This was new. Strange. But better than being ripped apart with lightning claws. He nodded respectfully. “Yes, my lord.”</p><p>“I hate space, too! All there is in space is horrible people committing crimes always. I want to go home.”</p><p>“Shall I order the –?”</p><p>“No! There’s no point going home. The Emperor will just destroy it. But I want...” His frown deepened, as though he were unsure. “...just write it down! Write down that I said it. I hate space. It’s bullshit.”</p><p>“Yes, my lord.”</p><p>“That’s everything,” Night Haunter said. “Go away. Don’t talk to me until I ask for you.”</p><p>Shang bowed and departed, quickly. Behind him, he heard the thunder crack of his Primarch punching a wall.</p><p>“It won’t work,” Night Haunter said, once he was alone with his brother. “It’s a stupid idea. They don’t care what I want. They won’t do it.”</p><p>Fulgrim smiled. “Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.”</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Art</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Konrad stepped out of the Stormbird into the hangar bay of the <i>Pride of the Emperor</i>. His hair was wild, his armor dripping with fresh gore. He had something in his hand that looked like a large puppet with two crossed sticks for a body. The top point of the cross was jammed up the neck stump of a human head. The face was damaged, but it could just be recognized as the late Supreme Commander of Algervan, his smirk now fallen slack and clownish. Each of the side points of the cross was stuck into the wrist stump of a hand, and the man’s skin flopped and dangled around the armature in mockery of a living pose.</p><p>“We won,” he said to his waiting brother. “I brought you this.” He thrust forward the desecrated remains.</p><p>“For me?” Fulgrim took the puppet’s stick carefully in his delicate hand. “Baby, did you make this yourself?”</p><p>“Yes. He cowered like a frightened child in his command bunker. I pulled him out and eviscerated him in front of his men to teach them that their primitive armored buildings will not protect them from justice.”</p><p>Fulgrim looked over the trophy, holding the ragged edge of the hide between his fingers. The texture intrigued him. “Did you flay him with your knives?” he asked.</p><p>“My claws.” Konrad held up his lightning claws to show that, yes, they had been used recently to flay a corpse.</p><p>“Konrad, that’s so creative!” Fulgrim threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly, heedless of the gore. “I love it. I didn’t know you made art!”</p><p>“It isn’t art,” Konrad said. Art was pictures and sculptures and stained glass windows. He hadn’t made any art on Algervan. If anything, he’d probably reduced the amount of art that existed on that planet. They’d destroyed a lot of buildings. “It’s a message.”</p><p>“That’s what art is,” Fulgrim said. “You have a message, and you use the materials you have to get your message across.” He looked at the puppet again. “And this is unforgettable. Everyone who sees it will understand you immediately..”</p><p>Konrad wasn’t sure Fulgrim was right about art, but he was pleased that he recognized a job well done. His other brothers could be so fussy about the details of things. It felt good to be appreciated. “There’s more on the surface,” he said. “I impaled Parliament on stakes on top of the capitol building”</p><p>“You make <i>installations</i> too? I want to see everything.” He handed the gruesome trophy to one of his attendants. “Put this in a cold, dry room with low oxygen, please. I love it, and I want to keep it forever.” To his other attendant, he said, “Tell Bequa to join us, quickly. I need to show her something inspirational. Bequa’s my Remembrancer,” he explained to Konrad. “If I don’t let her take reference pictures, I’m sure she’ll never forgive me. What time is it in the capital now?”</p><p>“It’s late,” Konrad said. “Dark.”</p><p>“Perfect! We’ll catch the golden hour just after sunrise.” He gazed fondly at Konrad and wiped the blood-matted hair from his eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “You did a wonderful job.”</p><p>Konrad couldn’t remember the phrase he was looking for (which was, ‘you’re welcome’) so he basked quietly in Fulgrim’s joy while they waited for his propagandist.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Astartes Cuddling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Thank you for indulging me in this, Konrad. I know it isn’t your usual sort of pastime.”</p><p>“No, it’s not.” Night Haunter looked sidelong at his brother, weighing words in his mind. “You’re a strange person. You do a lot of strange things. I don’t understand them. But some of them – more than I would expect – seem to make you a more effective killer in some way. So I’m curious.”</p><p>Fulgim smiled and kissed his forehead. “Good. Curiosity is healthy. Nurture that feeling.” He opened the door to let in their chosen companions.</p><p>Lord Commander Shang was a pale, scarred Astartes with deep bags below his eyes. Prepared for an audience with the Phoenician and one of their cousin-legion, he wore tinted contacts to block the light. His eyes were already large and dark, and now they were featureless wells of black. The back and sides of his head were shaved, leaving a short tail of black hair on the top. He was not in armor, but in the dull gray shirt and pants the Night Lords favored when off duty.</p><p>Lord Commander Vespasian was dignified and Patrician. His blond hair was short and neat, his eyeliner was subtle, and his perfume smelled of pine resin and fresh soap. He wore a simple white chiton.</p><p>“Please, come in,” Fulgrim said. “Now,” he turned to address Konrad, “what do you notice?”</p><p>“It’s Shang.”</p><p>“Yes. He looks like you, doesn’t he?”</p><p>“Does he?”</p><p>“Yes.” He touched the back of his hand to Shang’s cheek. “More like his father every day. That’s what Astartes are. They’re like you, but they’re younger and smaller, and they <i>need</i> you.” Now he ran a fond hand over Vespasian’s hair. It was as soft and plush as kitten fur. “Try touching his hair,” he suggested. “They’re very soft.”</p><p>Hesitantly, Konrad reached out and stroked Shang’s head. “He isn’t soft.”</p><p>“No?” Fulgrim touched Shang’s hair. It felt like a greasy plastic brush. “All right,” he said, “we’re going to make this a spa day.”</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fulgrim combed his fingers through his nephew Shang’s matts of stiff, sticky hair while Vespasian stood at his side, offering him conditioner. Night Haunter glowered behind them in a corner of the steam bath.</p><p>“What kind of product do you use, baby?” Fulgrim asked. “Shang, honey?” he prompted.</p><p>“Oh!” Shang had not understood that the endearment had been addressed to him.</p><p>“What do you put in your hair?”</p><p>“Fixative, my Lord.”</p><p>“You can call me Uncle.”</p><p>“Uh, fixative, Uncle.”</p><p>“Okay. It doesn’t seem to come out very well, does it?”</p><p>“No, Uncle.” Shang was wary of giving a wrong answer. Was it supposed to come out?</p><p>Fulgrim sniffed his hand and looked thoughtful. “Where do you get the fixative?” he asked.</p><p>“From the repair kit, Uncle. For my armor.” Shang said. He glanced nervously at his father in the corner. “I only use a little. It keeps my hair out of my face. I put the tube back.”</p><p>“Oh… okay, sweetie,” Fulgrim said, “don’t put industrial fixative in your hair anymore, all right? Can you do that for me?”</p><p>“Yes, my Lord. Uncle.”</p><p>“Good boy. I’ll give you some hair cream to use instead. I think you’ll like it.” He looked up at Konrad and smiled. “See? They want to please you. You just have to tell them what you want.” To Shang, he said, “Your hair has fused into clumps at the molecular level, and I don’t think it’s possible to detangle it. But! You will look adorable growing in a little buzz cut. And I’m sure you will be very soft and fuzzy.”</p>
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